


Where is Your Mind?

by LadyoftheSea



Series: Going a Little Mad [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Kink, Choking, Come Eating, Creampie, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Home Invasion, Joker Shaving, L!Joker, Marking, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsession, Painplay, Possessive Behavior, Power Play, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sadism, Sharing a Bed, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22168768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: You thought it could just stay a dream - there's no way he'd come back. Surely, the Clown Prince of Crime has better things to do than returning for the glove he left behind.Right?
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You, Joker/Original Female Character(s), Joker/Reader, Joker/You
Series: Going a Little Mad [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595734
Comments: 43
Kudos: 301





	1. Bad Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

> _With your feet on the air and your head on the ground  
>  Try this trick and spin it, yeah  
> Your head will collapse  
> But there's nothing in it  
> And you'll ask yourself  
> Where is my mind?  
> Where is my mind?  
> Where is my mind?  
> Way out in the water  
> See it swimmin'_
> 
> "Where is My Mind?" - Pixies

After a month, you thought you might be able to put Halloween out of your mind for more than five minutes, but after checking the lock for the seventh time, you admit to yourself that you're still in trouble. 

_But what do I do?_

The offending item—a purple glove that came in a box under your bed (with a note you immediately burned)—is in your closet, tucked away into a far corner. You put it there so you'd stop thinking about it. 

_Out of sight, out of mind, right?_

That hasn't worked well, either. 

Throwing it away _did_ occur to you, but you're more terrified of him coming back angry rather than… whatever it is that he had in mind. 

_'I'll, ah… be seeing you soon.'_

You can still hear his voice, and instead of feeling complete fear, uncertainty and a flash of heat that makes your cheeks burn comes with it. Some parts of Halloween are still hazy: You know you survived an attack by Scarecrow, and that you met someone in the street and— 

_No, no, no—don't think about that._

Even if your mind pushes it away, your body remembers more than enough to make sure you haven't spoken about it to anybody. Janis, the friend you went to the party with, was injured but managed to get out of the club in time. Unlike you, she doesn't remember anything, and you're not eager to refresh her memory. You didn't even tell the police, but now… the more time passes, the more trapped you feel. 

_What am I supposed to tell them? That while everyone was out of their minds I was—doing…_ things _with a psychotic clown?_

No, you made the right choice. There's no explaining that to anyone. 

_Just stop thinking about it. Things will take care of themselves. A terrorist has bigger things to do than stalking me, right?_

You make yourself believe that it _is_ true. For the next couple of days, you firmly and rigidly adhere to a schedule: wake up early, make your lunch, go to work and throw yourself into it—you can't dwell on what has and hasn't happened if you keep your brain busy—schedule evenings out with anyone who'll answer, and get home to take a sleep aid and knock yourself out. And it was working. 

Emphasis on the _was._

It's Friday and you had an entire evening planned with your friend Marcy, but it's not until you're on the bus that you see the message cancelling. 

**Sry! Bad headache - see u nxt week instead?**

"Shit," you mutter under your breath. It's past six and you already know nobody's available to fill the rest of your evening. Now you're faced with going home to spend the evening alone. The thought of it has you breaking into a cold sweat. 

_You'll be fine. He still hasn't shown up—you haven't even heard from him. You're fine._

Ignoring the alternative to your assurances, you head home. You're pretty sure you have a bottle of wine in the fridge, and putting your feet up and drinking until you fall asleep sounds as good a plan as any. 

That's what you look forward to, distracting yourself about which movie you're going to watch, right up until you unlock the front door of your apartment. The front entryway is dark, but there's a light around the corner and you hear faint sounds coming from your TV. 

_I don't think I left anything on when I went to work this morning…_

A lump grows in your throat, but you make yourself move. Sensations like those you felt on Halloween return—that certainty that something's in the dark and coming for you. 

_No, stop it. You're fine, you're_ fine _…_

Panic so intense grips you until you feel like it's physically manifested, clinging to your back and making the walls warp. 

You look back at the door and see it's perfectly intact. Nothing looks chipped or broken. Maybe you really did forget to turn off the TV this morning. 

Taking a deep breath, you go down the short hallway to your living room, stepping inside and freezing in place. _Finding Nemo's_ playing, and on the floor is a half-empty bottle of bourbon. 

You didn't leave that there—you don't even think you've drunk it before—and it’s when you see the purple jacket draped over the back of the couch that true panic knocks the wind out of you. 

_"Oh my God—"_

Before you can scream, tear out of your apartment or even reach for your phone, an arm wraps around your waist, pressing you into something hard and warm, and a hand claps over your mouth. You start thrashing immediately—like that will do anything to help, you know you're not that strong—and the hand on your mouth tightens until your teeth ache. 

"Sorry, sweetheart, I _know_ what you're thinking." It's that voice—the one from Halloween. Your body freezes, a tsunami of conflicting instincts and thoughts consumes your brain— _you need to run, kick him in the balls, smack his head with a lamp—_ but everything going through you dies when he gives your waist a squeeze. “I _really_ should’ve called first. I know, _I know—_ very _rude_ of me.”

He breaks off in a chuckle that quickly descends into a fit of barely suppressed squeals of delight, and you realize just how deep you’re in it. You _know_ what he did, you _know_ that this man is _deranged—dangerous—_

And the man you slept with. 

_But I didn’t want to, right?_

“Gotta say, doll, I was kinda hopin’ for a, uh… _warmer_ welcome.” Chuckling again, he presses his nose into your hair, breathing deeply. You can smell the greasepaint on his face, the leather of his glove covering your mouth, and old sweat clinging to his clothes. You try to ignore how his fingers are moving around your ribs and keep the whimpers building in your throat from getting too loud. Audibly inhaling, he says, “Still smell as good as I remember. Did ya miss me, doll? _I_ missed you. We had a lot of _fun_ last time, didn’t we?” 

You think it’s smarter to not give a reply. More of that night came back to you a while ago, even if you shoved it back down. The presence of _knives_ and the knowledge of what he does with them makes your hands slick with sweat. When he shifts, the fabric of his shirt ruffling the jacket you didn’t have a chance to take off, you freeze. Still keeping a grip on your jaw, he steps out in front of you, a smirk on his face and a devious gleam in his eye. 

“Now, _you_ and _I,”_ he says, motioning back and forth between you both and quirking an eyebrow, “are gonna come to some kind of, uh… _arrangement._ If I take my hand away, are _you_ gonna behave, hmm?”

_It’s not like I have any other option, do I?_

This man is more than capable of killing you—he showed that _very_ well if the death tolls were anything to go by. Shaking with terror, you try your best to nod your head. You feel tears well up in your eyes, but you’re not under the influence of that gas anymore, you _will_ keep a level head. _You will._

His marred mouth drags into a baleful grin—the violent, poorly-healed gashes on either side of his cheeks stretching to mock what a smile should look like. You swallow hard, making yourself stay completely still. “Ya sure? I’d _hate_ for there to be any… _misunderstandings_. This _is_ your home after all, and I wanna be a _good_ houseguest.” 

He smacks his lips together, eyes rolling up to the corner of the ceiling and fingers flexing against your cheeks. You’re on the verge of running and taking your chances when his eyes land back on you. 

“Well, _nod_ if you understand,” he snaps, waving his free hand—which you are now noticing is ungloved—around in a flurry. You nod harder, keeping still even though it’s the last thing you want to do. “Stu- _pen_ -dous.” 

Slowly, finger by finger, he removes his hand from your mouth. You try not to focus on the makeup—you won’t be able to function if you do—and it takes more effort and mental willpower to keep yourself calm than you’ve ever exercised. Last time you were out of your mind with terror, _he_ was the one leading you through it. Now what are you supposed to do? 

_What any_ sane _person would do. Because that’s what I am—I’m not harbouring a lunatic!_

A lunatic you slept with. 

_Oh, Jesus Christ._

“G-Get out of my apartment before—before I call the police,” you say, keeping your chin high and not retreating backward when he steps closer. Your legs shake and so does your bottom lip, but you won’t break down. You can _handle_ this. 

All those thoughts fly out the window when he laughs, starting as a low giggle and rising into a boisterous cackle that makes him bend at the waist. The hair on your arms stand up, and you finally start backing up toward the hallway. Straightening, he inserts himself in your space, his face disconcertingly close. It’s with a flash of heat to your cheeks that you remember how it felt to kiss him. 

“You _knew_ to expect me, hmm? I left a _note_ and everything.” He taps his hand against your face, almost as if to slap you but staying condescending instead. You frown, your anger and indignation clouding your ability to hold onto sense. “You didn’t _lose_ my glove, did you? That’s, ah… that’s _pretty import_ -ant, sweetheart.”

He advances on you, driving you back as his chest bumps into yours. You notice now that he’s just in a dark lavender dress shirt with a loose green tie and dark purple pants—only part of the ensemble you recall from the news. You smack your head against the wall when he stops in front of you. Every breath you take makes your chest brush against his, and you’re painfully aware of what happened last time you were in a position like this. It’s almost as if he stole your voice, but he isn’t laughing now. 

“I—I—”

“C’mon, now— _speak up.”_ He taps your cheek again, directing your gaze upward with a light grip on your chin. He’s so close he could kiss you, could hoist your legs up and—- 

_No, no, NO!_

“Get away from me!” You shove him hard, succeeding in giving yourself an inch to reach the hallway only for him to tug you backward by the neck. You shriek, but the sound dies as the wind’s knocked out of you when he slams you against the wall. _“Stop—”_

“Hehe, that’s _not_ what you were saying before, was it, _hmm?”_ he asks, silencing you with a finger against your lips. He’s smiling again, giggling lowly. You remember when teenage boys would make that sound—it was usually after catcalling someone. Genuine mirth lights up his eyes before they droop, taking in your body in slow, sweeping glances. He taps his chin, as if he was deep in thought. “It was, ah, something about… _wanting more,_ if I remember correct- _ly.”_

The grin is a knowing one, its own form of innuendo. You have a harder time remembering what you said that night, but you know that’s what he’s talking about. Your whole body goes hot, almost like it’s re-experiencing what it felt like when he was inside you—

_NO!_

“Shut up.” 

You glare as best you can, hardening your resolve only for it to crumble when his mouth hovers over your neck, his breath a blowtorch against your skin. You silently curse yourself when you gasp. 

“And _I_ remember saying that I _liked you_ and everything. Really _bared_ my _soul,”_ he growls, his teeth nipping at your skin briefly before releasing, making you jump and push against his shoulders—but you remember feeling those before, how strong they were. You’re against a wall with nowhere to go, trying your best not to whimper and failing. “Don’t you remember? I said that, uh, ‘I think I _really_ like you’.” He chuckles, and the tip of his tongue traces along your carotid, making you gasp again. “After, ah… _deliberating,_ I think I was right. Mmm _hmm_ , I’m just gonna… keep you _forever.”_

“Get _away_ from me!” 

The Joker laughs hysterically at your cries of protest, how your body went from trembling to pounding your fists against his chest. His chin dips down, and the raised eyebrow makes it clear he’s humouring you. He could force this if he really wanted to. 

_Don’t think about that—think_ positive— 

“I—I was confused that night. You… you took advantage of me.” Now the tears come and you brush them away. He’s still staring, but the condescension is replaced with something else, and he starts to rub your arms up and down, almost like he’s… _comforting_ you. Your voice breaks and stutters, but you still make yourself speak. “I barely remember… remember _anything._ Y-You were just—just _there_ and I thought…”

You don’t know what you thought, you were barely in your right mind. 

_He just seemed… nice, at first._

Betrayed— _that’s_ how you feel. You don’t know why, but it makes your chest tight. You're surprised to see his eyes soften, just a little bit. He wipes at your cheek with his bare thumb, rubbing the tears away as the calluses make your skin tingle. How he looks now is the amalgamation of what you saw before—the normal face of a man with that of a ghoul, and it leaves you confused. 

“Why are you here?” you ask, not able to meet his eyes anymore. One hand is still rubbing your arm and the other stroking your cheek, and you refuse to acknowledge that it feels nice. 

He lets out a sigh, and all the warmth radiating from him leaves as he steps away and drops down onto the couch like a child would a trampoline. 

“Jeez, can’t visit _anyone_ these days. Think I was some kind of _terrorist_ or somethin’,” he says, making wide gestures with his hands as he looks at some unseen audience before levelling his heavy gaze back on you. 

_You_ are _a terrorist._

But you know that’s not smart to say aloud. You stay where you are against the wall, trying to keep your annoyance to yourself that he’s lounging on your couch like he owns the place and eating _your_ Golden Oreos that you'd been saving. For some asinine reason, _that’s_ what makes you the angriest. 

_This entitled bastard._

“Can’t I just _be_ in the neighbourhood, wanting to check in with one of my _favourite_ gal-pals?” 

_“Gal-pal?”_ you ask, much of your fear forgotten at the choice of words. The whirlwind your brain was trapped in before returns with a vengeance. “I—I don’t even know your real name! I met you _once_ while I was—was hopped up on some chemical weapon from hell!” You’re getting too emotional, you know you are, but you can’t make yourself stop. “Is—is this something you do _often?_ Just _break into_ random girls’ houses and just—just—”

 _“Just_ wha- _t?”_ he asks, all softness and mirth gone. 

You shut your mouth quickly, knowing you went too far. You don’t answer, your body freezing up. He starts to pat the spot next to him on the couch and, right now, you’d rather be running soaked and barefoot in the snow. The look on his face tells you that you don’t _have_ a choice. Slowly, feet heavy like lead, you make your way to the couch and sit on the far end. You don’t even see his hand dart out until it’s around your shoulder and dragging you closer, jostling you like you’ve known each other for ages. 

“What would you _rather_ I call you, sweetheart? _Hmm?_ My, ah… _squeeze?_ My fun, _little_ bunny?” The condescension is back and you resist the urge to clock him. “If you have a, ah, _better_ term to describe _you_ to the guy who was… _heh.”_ The Joker starts to laugh again, his chest rumbling and shaking you along with it. You try not to notice how strong his grip is. His eyes roll again and he takes his bottom lip between his teeth. “Who was, to put it, ah, delicate- _ly… inside you_ , then _enlighten me.”_

Shame hits you like a slap, your cheek burning as if he’d actually done it. Your actions are automatic, an answer to that kind of insult—and your hand cracks across his face. It fails to wipe away the smirk, but hard enough that you left an imprint in the paint, and, before you can hit him again, he catches your wrist, squeezing tight.

“Little, ah… _firecracker,_ ain’t ya?” Trying to rip your hand away proves unsuccessful, and he twists it around, curling his upper lip after smacking them together. His eyes move to your chest, lingering before slowly dragging upward. “Do you _want_ me to hurt you?” he asks. 

You feel floored, remembering what he said as he guided you along before. And you remember what you called him— _Mr. J._

The hair on the back of your neck rises, skin dimpling and tightening painfully. His hand against your wrist burns but you don’t try to move away this time. He pumps his eyebrows, dipping his chin down and wrenching your wrist. You bite your lip hard, keeping yourself from crying out, but you taste iron on your tongue. His eyes dart to your mouth before flicking back up, but he still doesn’t say anything. 

_Is… is he really expecting an answer?! It should be obvious!_

You realize that it doesn’t matter to him—you don’t have leverage here: _He_ does. The Joker might be playing nice, or _his_ idea of nice, for now, but there’s worse that he could do. _A lot_ worse. 

“N-No, I… I don’t,” you whisper, feeling very small as he seems to loom over you even when you’re both sitting. 

He props his feet—which are only covered by a pair of green patchwork socks—on your coffee table, crossing them at the ankle. Releasing your wrist, he drapes his arms along the back of the couch, his ungloved hand twisting itself in your hair. His eyes never leave yours, and their weight manifests like your anxiety did when you first came home—becoming the very air you breathe and making you choke on it. 

“How about, ah… _Mommy and Daddy?_ Want me to hurt _them?”_ he asks, the derision in his voice heavy and the consonants sharp. 

You pale, inching back from him like he’s holding a knife to your throat—and, for what he’s doing, he might as well be. “Wh-What?” 

Sighing, he gives your hair a small tug before readjusting—which apparently involves pulling you towards him, making you fall into his chest and brace against his thigh before you completely faceplant into his lap. You almost scream until his hand goes to the back of your neck, fingers working into the tense muscles. You hate yourself for how quickly heat rushes up your body. 

“After our, uh, _tryst,_ I found myself a _little… enamoured,_ you could say.” His hand wanders from your neck down your arm, skirting around your breast and waist before landing on your hip—and you wish you’d chosen to wear anything else than a skirt today. His chest radiates warmth, lulling your mind as it brands your skin. “Y’see, I just _couldn’t_ stop thinkin’ to myself, _‘she_ knows how to have some _fun.’_ And, y’know what? I could use a little right now.”

When his hand creeps down and squeezes your thigh, you almost jump straight off the couch. He shoves you back down, growling when you try to stand. It’s not because what he’s doing is entirely unpleasant—it’s _because_ the memory of what he did is imprinted in your body so deeply your mind can’t affect it. 

It’s like he can read your thoughts, if the nefarious grin on his face is anything to go by. 

“Oh-ho, _you_ remember more than you’re lettin’ on, don’t ya?” he says in your ear, voice low and deep. Your whole body erupts in shivers and he takes notice. Giggling for a moment before kissing your neck, you melt into it, the warmth concentrating in your belly. _“May-_ be you’re remembering how you, ah… _begged_ for more.” His mouth stays on your neck, hand going further up your inner thigh, and you pant. He laughs quietly. “I’m used to a, uh, _different_ kind of begging, but _yours…_ I could get _addicted_ to that.” 

Just when you think his hand, with his strong fingers going ever higher, is going to go all the way up your skirt and you feel the tip of his tongue against your skin, he draws away completely. You don’t have time to feel whiplashed by the time he pushes you off the couch—making you land with a dull _thump_ against the carpet. Your head’s swimming like you just took a hit of something and he’s cackling above you. 

“Glad to see we’re in, uh… _agreement.”_

His feet are propped up again, the total picture of casualness—and not like he was about to go to third base with you. The heat of desire in your stomach turns to rage and fear, and you wish more than anything you could cave his head in. He’s not looking at you anymore—not really. His attention tuned into the movie— _Finding_ goddamn _Nemo—_ he pops his lips. 

“I need to lay _low_ for a while. Your place will do nicely, _hmm?_ And I’m always a, uh, _sucker_ for company.” He winks before picking up the bottle of bourbon from the floor and taking a swig. You sincerely hope he chokes on it. 

“That’s it? You’re just—just _staying here?”_ You don’t know why you’re incredulous—why you’re even arguing for that matter. You should be calling the _police—_ barricading yourself in your bathroom and— 

“Ye- _p.”_ He licks his lips and pops them again before taking another swig. Stopping half-way, he seems to think of something. “Oh, and I’m gonna need to, ah… confis- _cate_ your, uh, phone.” 

He gestures with a _gimme_ motion, and you freeze. Your cellphone is the only way besides your computer to access the outside world. And it looks like he knows it. Short of trying to flag someone outside from your window or making it to the door, you’ll be trapped in here. You didn’t have plans with anyone this weekend like you had originally hoped. Nobody will miss you until you don’t show up for work. 

_That’s a lot of time for me to be dead._

You open your mouth to speak, to ask what exactly his intentions are, but lose your voice. He’s just watching the screen, the volume turned up and giggling whenever Dory talks. This man could kill you and so much more. But… 

_He… he didn’t do anything awful before when he could have and he hasn’t now…_

The Joker hasn’t even _hurt_ you, really. Scared you? Most certainly. Maybe it’s just like he says it is—he’s trying to fly under the radar for a while and no one would think of checking your apartment. That he didn’t force himself on you means that he was at best teasing you and at worst being antagonistic, but it’s all… very different than you thought he would be, and you aren’t out of your mind with terror either. 

“How… how long are you staying?” you ask. It was so quiet you’re not sure if he heard you, but the twitch of his mouth and quick flick of his eyes assures you that he did. 

“Mmm… _depends.”_

 _Well,_ that’s _not helpful._

The prospect of him being here for more than a day is more than you can worry about. You don’t have the energy to sit on the floor and panic over what hasn’t happened yet. Getting up, legs shaking slightly, you go to leave, looking back to see if he’s going to follow. He doesn’t take his eyes from the TV, snacking away on your Oreos. Anger replaces any fear you were feeling. 

_Fine. Let the bastard sleep on the couch—eat my food. But he’s not getting anywhere_ near _me._

You try to walk with dignity to your room—not going too fast to indicate you’re running away from him, but to demonstrate that you can deal with this. _You can._

You keep repeating that as you lock the door behind you and grab the baseball bat you keep in your closet. If he _does_ try anything, you won’t be defenceless. 

_Now, just need to stay awake…_

Changing out of your skirt into something more freeing—a large sweater and jogging pants—you set up camp in the corner facing the door, the window at your back. You can do this—you’ll be fine. 

After keeping guard for at least two hours, the cold seeping in through the cracks around the window numbs your fingers, making your eyelids heavy. 

_No—stay awake. Stay awake…_

Your blinks get longer, you curl in on yourself tighter and adjust your grip on the bat. The TV’s still audible beyond the door—you hope he’ll just stay there all night. As the winter night hides away the sun, you’re too cold to get up and turn on the light—your limbs stiff after not moving for so long—and the blinks get longer still. 

_Stay awake, stay awake…_

You keep telling yourself that until your head drops against your knees and your eyes finally get that longed-for sleep. 


	2. Closer

It feels like you’re floating. 

On some weightless cloud that lulls your body to and fro, there’s a dull ache in your spine—it’s stiff and rigid—but you’re against something warm. _Very_ warm. 

_This feels… nice._

Awareness comes back a little bit at a time. Just as you feel your legs sway, you land on something soft and the heat retreats. You want to find it again, but it’s like your limbs don’t want to work. 

_“Shh, shh.”_

“Mmm?” 

You can’t tell if you’re eyes are open or not, if you’re still in a dream. Everything’s dark, only a faint light gives the world a pleasant haze. 

“Just _sleep_ ,” a voice says from behind you. 

A little more of the weightless feeling falls away, replaced by something heavy that sits on your chest. It’s like there’s a living furnace at your back, burning you alive. Reality floods into you in a crushing wave.

_He’s here—he’s next to me—_

Shrieking, you push him away and fall off the bed, scrambling back until you hit the wall. He groans and you can see his rolling form in the half-dark. “Oh my—could you _be_ more—more _melodramatic?”_ he asks, exasperated. 

_Is—is he_ serious?! 

“You—you’re— _get out!”_

"Talk about _drama queen._ And I thought that was _my_ job. Sheesh." 

He’s making it sound like what he’s doing is totally normal—like you’ve obviously fallen off the bumpkin cart somewhere along the way and are too slow to catch up. You start feeling around the floor, searching for your bat as your eyes adjust to the dim light. 

He’s at the edge of the bed and rolls his eyes like you’re a petulant teenager. You’d love nothing more than to smack the look off his face—with a bat or your hand seems ideal. “Always _freaking out_ over nothing.”

“This is—this isn’t _nothing!”_ You realize you’re yelling, and you remember the implied (and evident) threats he made against you and your parents. Quieting your voice, everything comes out in an angry whisper. “Get out of my bed. _Now.”_

“Then where am _I_ supposed to sleep?”

 _Oh my God—it’s like chastising a teenager from hell._

“Not here!”

The Joker cackles, a hand going over his eyes as it turns into chest-shaking laughter. “You’re, ah… you’re _funny.”_

“I’m being serious.” 

_Now_ I _sound petulant. How does he manage to just undermine_ everything?

Flopping back over, he makes a show of getting comfortable. Taking your side of the bed and pulling up the blankets and tucking them under his chin, slithering around until he looks like he’s never going to leave. “Welp, _enjoy_ the floor," he sings. Insistent visions of breaking his jaw come to mind. 

It’s like the nightmares from Halloween just won’t let go. 

_Maybe you’re still hallucinating—yeah. Yeah, it’s the fear gas, that’s it._

But you know it’s not. There are no shadows controlling your body, the world isn’t red, and there are no beasts hiding in the dark—just the one in your bed. This is painfully rooted in everything you’re familiar with, everything that’s yours. And it makes you _angry._

“You—you can’t just—” 

You’re so tired, frustrated, and fear isn’t far behind—you just want this to be over, for it to have been a bad dream all along. But… what are you supposed to do? What _can_ you do? 

_Well, no sense in hiding what you feel._

“You’re _infuriating!”_ Pulling at your hair to keep yourself from screaming, you know there's a large chance that you’re speeding up the timeline of when you die, but right now you can’t bring yourself to care. 

“Ooh, you say it like it’s something I _haven’t_ heard before.” 

For a homicidal maniac, he doesn’t sound angry or even _peeved._ He just sounds… _sleepy._

_Is this the Twilight Zone?!_

His lack of any kind of real response drains yours out of you, but that still leaves you stuck on the floor and a _wanted criminal—_ a literal _killer clown_ —in your bed, probably rubbing his makeup all over your satin pillow shams. 

_How did I get here? Which angry god did I piss off? Honestly…_

“What time is it?” you ask in a huff, rubbing your eyes. The question as to how he got in crosses your mind, but he also got into your apartment without ruining the door. It’s disconcerting that he can get into anywhere you’d try to hide in your apartment. 

_But he still hasn’t done anything…_

“I’m _tired,_ doll. Be a dear and, ah, _shut up.”_

There’s a muffled snarl in there, but it’s missing the bite. The absolute _gall_ of the man makes you seriously contemplate inflicting violence— _real_ , serious and life-altering violence of the dismemberment variety—for the first time in your life. Instead of getting up to throttle him, your throat gets tight. 

“You’re _rude,_ you know that? Eat my food, take over my place, scare me half to death, steal my bed…” 

You don’t mean to, and you blame the confusion, but you start to cry in frustration. Burying your face in your arms, you try to figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do. You distantly hear him huff, and the sudden grip around your biceps should make you panic, but you’re beyond caring. Pulling you up, he brings you to the bed, getting you to sit before pushing on your head until you’re half lying down with your feet dangling over the edge. It's like he's _trying_ to tuck you in but employing all the grace of a caveman. None of it _feels_ bad, though. And that makes it worse. 

“Just, ah… rest that _pretty_ little head of yours, _hmm?”_ he says, sounding even more tired than you feel. His arms circle around your waist, bringing you back into the warmth of his chest. You try wriggling away—he’s too close—but he sighs again, blowing strands of your hair into your eyes. “You’re fine, _you’re fine._ I’m too tired for you to be so—so _worried._ I’m not a _complete_ monster _._ Jeez. _”_

“All signs point to the contrary…” you mumble, trying to move his arm unsuccessfully. He pinches your side hard enough to make you jump. _“Ow!”_

 _“You’re_ rude.” He only adjusts by an inch, and with a hot flush to your cheeks, you realize he’s not wearing a shirt. Burying his nose in your hair, you noticeably tense up. “I _told you—_ you don’t have anything to worry about.”

For some reason, you believe him. Maybe it’s because you’re too exhausted to care right now, or maybe it’s because you don’t think he’d actually hurt you, not that you’re exempt from the whims of an unbalanced criminal, but for now… you believe he’s telling the truth. 

His breathing is even, but not deep enough to tell if he’s actually asleep or not. That doesn’t matter too much to you right now. He’s quiet, warm—your bed is still familiar and soft—and you drift back to sleep. 

* * *

_It’s all been a dream. A really, really weird dream._

You keep repeating that to yourself. Waking up when he left the bed and taking the heat with him, you haven’t moved since. There were several moments where you woke up thinking he was trying to _strangle_ you to death—but it turns out he’s just the absolute _worst_ person to share a bed with. His arm wrapping around your neck and making it impossible to move, his torso half-crushing yours, pushing your head back down whenever you awoke to try and shift—it is without a doubt the worst you've ever slept. 

_And yet I didn't kill him. I need to rethink my priorities._

Your apartment is usually too cold, multiple layers and several blankets were how you managed to stay warm, but you woke up covered in sweat: both yours _and_ his. You let out a loud groan you hope he doesn’t hear. 

_Maybe I should just tell him to kill me now. Fuck—how did I get here? Why haven’t I clawed his face off?_

You don’t have any answers for that, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever find them. Digging the heels of your hands into your eyes, you resist the urge to _scream._

_What am I supposed to do?_

You can comfort yourself in that he kept his word—he didn’t do anything. Besides almost smothering you, you felt a strange certainty that you’d at least wake-up in the morning. What comes next is still a damn mystery. He didn’t say anything when he woke up with a loud groan, only pushing you down as leverage as he jumped out of bed before springing off. Now he’s doing God knows what in your bathroom and you can’t lie here forever. 

Slowly rising, working the kinks out of your neck and shaking feeling back into your arms, you look towards the hall—where the bathroom is just around the corner from your room. If you were going to make a run for it, _now_ would be the time, really. You shouldn’t need to make a pros and cons list in your head, but you are. 

_What are you doing…_

Peeling off the jogging pants and sweater you put on last night, you change into an oversized t-shirt you pick up from the floor. All the thoughts leave your head—you’re not even sure what you’re doing—but you don’t put any shorts on before walking toward the bedroom door. 

_Why does it feel like I’m going to do something stupid?_

It's probably because you are. 

Tentatively, you peek from around the corner. The Joker didn’t close the bathroom door and you’re not sure what to expect—dead bodies in the bathtub, bags of blood that he’s drinking from like some kind of goddamn vampire, painting his nails—but it certainly wasn’t _this._

_He’s… shaving?_

You rub your eyes, thinking you must be hallucinating—you _know_ what that feels like—what’s happening is in the same realm of surreal that dominated that Halloween night. 

A shirtless Joker’s standing at your bathroom counter, makeup-less and straight razor in hand, carefully following the contours of his jaw. He skates and glides around the thick, pink scars with more care than you thought someone like him would. Even seeing them—and his face—without the makeup retains the dreamlike quality that you can’t shake. His skin is tan and small tattoos cover parts of his arms and back—which are either burned or covered in scars as thick as the ones on his face—and his torso’s lean with wiry muscle. Your face goes hot when you realize you’re staring, but your eyes don’t draw away. 

He’s completely focused on the task, but you’re sure he saw you come up and lean against the doorframe from the sidelong flick of his eyes. No thoughts enter your mind, and you focus just as intensely on him as he is on dragging the razor across his face. Hair wet and dripping, the green dye growing out, sharp cheekbones and doing something so… _mundane_ —it’s different than what you saw before, even more so than what you saw on the news. Not garish or even terrifying, his face almost becomes mesmerizing _._

_That’s it—you’re losing it. It’s official._

“Are you just gonna _stand there_ all day, sweetheart?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow and slowly turning toward you, smirking when he looks you up and down. 

You flush like some twelve-year-old girl but still can’t bring yourself to look away. “U-Um…”

_What am I even doing?_

With a jerk of his chin, he motions you to come closer. It’s like your body’s back under the control of the shadows again, but you know it’s not. You _want_ to come closer, you _want_ to see more of the man that managed to turn an entire city upside down. You might not be hallucinating, but you’re still bowing to his influence, and it doesn’t feel so bad right now. 

_Yep. I'm crazy—I've lost it._

Stopping when there’s a foot of space between you, it’s under the weight of his gaze that you feel like you’re floating again—like you did when he put you in bed last night. 

“C’mere,” he says, throwing the razor into the sink with a flick of his wrist. You obey, squeaking when he picks you up and drops you on the counter. 

Moving until he’s standing between your legs, the bare skin of your thighs resting against his sides, he doesn’t let you look away. His eyes are black and endless, and the line of his mouth is serious despite how the scars curl into that permanent grin. When you saw the flickers of it the first time, they scared you, but now you’re wrapped up in the enigma that is the man in front of you, unable to make yourself feel fear. Spots of his cheeks are covered in white islands where he missed the shaving cream, and you can’t help but think of the last time you were in this position—him between your legs and wanting him to be closer.

 _What is_ wrong _with me?!_

“Not very good at this,” he says, and you don’t know what he’s referring to until he starts pointing at his face, tilting his head around to give you a better look and almost dancing in place, his body moving almost like that of a snake. Pushing the razor into your hand, he leans in close. “Need you to, ah… _finish the job_ for me, doll.” 

_He… he can’t be serious._

This is the second time he’s shoved something sharp into your hand, asked you to use it on him. Isn’t he worried, concerned _at all_ that you just might go for his throat? You’re not suggestable anymore, your head’s clear. 

_Well…_ almost _clear._

Your eyes search his face, looking for his expression to switch and then finding yourself bleeding out on the floor, but he still hasn’t done anything when he could have a long time ago. You sense no animosity, nothing other than barely suppressed mirth and curiosity coming from him. 

_Why is this something he enjoys doing?_

You’re not sure if you’ll know the answer to that either, and you shake your head, readjusting your grip on the razor. Slowly touching his neck, the pads of your fingers brush along his skin before your palm rests against his pulse. It’s electric, a thrum that makes your body vibrate. 

“Gotta _pay_ attention,” he says, tapping a finger on your collarbone and dragging it along until he makes a small circle on your shoulder, making you shiver and almost fall into the sink. “Don’t want to, ah, ruin my _dashing_ good looks, do we?” 

He’s smiling playfully, his eyebrow giving a small pump as he moves closer to you, the right scar spiralling inward. You nod, trying to keep your hand from shaking.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says, his voice a low murmur, and you’re surprised that you find it _soothing._

_Some wires got crossed in your brain, holy hell._

Nodding again, confused as to why he’s asking _you_ to do this of all things when the only experience you have with razors is the ones you use to shave your legs. He never looks away, the expression of playfulness stays, and you wonder why he’s here, why he’s being… well, like _this._

_Does it matter? Does it change what’s happening now?_

It doesn’t, and so you slowly perform the task, feeling the bumps in the scar tissue, the ruined and marred skin, the thick lines from poorly-healed sutures on one side and the lines, raised and smooth, on the other. Careful to make sure the sharp edge doesn’t skip and slice his already marked face, you find yourself liking the feeling of his skin against yours, memorizing the grooves and dips. 

You’re careful—surprisingly so—and you find it odd that you don’t _really_ want to hurt him, even though you have plenty of opportunities. You could slash his throat and bolt, but your desire to do anything like that has almost completely ebbed away despite the anger you still feel in the pit of your stomach. 

Your fingers rest on his cheeks even after you’ve finished. It’s smooth and then rippled where the scars split his face, and his eyelids droop, his head leaning into your touch and throat emitting what almost sounds like a purr. The heat’s still in you, that constant pulse, the blood rushing in your ears. You remember what it was like when he shoved the knife in your hands and pressed it against his chest, how he thrusted harder for it when he was inside you. 

The gouge is there, angry and red and still healing, and goes further down his sternum than you originally thought. Your eyes linger on it, taking in the damage that creates a map of violence across his body. He drinks in your expression, the smirk disappearing when he focuses on your lips. 

Your fingers trace back up, feeling the dull beating of his heart and sharp edges of his jaw, drawing inward until they touch his bottom lip, the wishbone scar nearly splitting it. It’s then that your eyes meet. 

_Oh, hell._

Throwing reason and sense out the window, you kiss him, consequences be damned. You were done for after finding his glove under your bed with the note anyway, you know, deep down. _Something_ was going to happen—you just didn't quite imagine it like this; there's no escaping what you'd rather leave behind. 

The Joker doesn’t draw back in surprise when your lips press against his, your teeth nipping them and the tip of your tongue tracing the forking scar; he growls and returns the kiss just as hard, both of you tasting like sleep and him like cigarettes. You press your chest against him, hands gripping his neck and fingers working their way through his hair, close to his scalp. 

You kiss him hard enough to bruise, to leave your lips raw, and a hand goes to the small of your back, moving your hips and bringing them flush against his. You know you’re wet, but you don’t feel embarrassed—just giving in to the desire to feel _something_ like you did before, enter that strange realm of unreality where things felt _good._

His hands go under your thighs, giving your ass a squeeze before picking you up. Wrapping your legs around him immediately, he stumbles with you out of the bathroom, and you only stop kissing him long enough to giggle. 

_Goodbye, sanity._

But you don’t care. 

He chuckles against your mouth, biting into your lip and opening the cut you made last night. _“Careful_ , don’t wanna wake the neighbours, do we?” His hands grip the back of your thighs harder, and you couldn’t give a damn if the whole block heard you—there’s only you and him and that incendiary desire that’s eating you whole. 

“Oh, just shut up.” 

You grip his hair hard, trying to cut off his laughter by biting his neck, leaving wet trails with your tongue. But he doesn’t stop—it shakes his chest and rattles through you until you both fall against the wall. You join him, sliding onto the floor as he spins you around, his chest over yours and his hands up your shirt reaching for your breasts and pinching a nipple between his fingers. 

Gasping, you barely notice that he’s pulling down your panties until they hit your knees. He rips them away, throwing them behind him as you follow his lead, tearing off your t-shirt and panting hard as he unbuckles his pants, dragging the zipper down. He stops for a moment, staring down at you in awe, a juvenile grin on his face. Your face is hot, but not in embarrassment. You lean up to kiss him again, anything to keep the high in your head, but he pushes you down until you’re flat against the floor. 

_“No, no, no,”_ he chastises, dragging his gaze from your face to your chest and down your stomach. Desire and something close to rapture light his eyes. There’s smears of red from where your blood marks his lips, and he licks it away, never moving his gaze and pinning you down harder when you try to wriggle out from under him. “I wanna _look_ at you,” he spreads your legs, dragging your hips until they’re lined up with his, “while I _fuck you._ ” 

You don’t have time to say anything, offer a protest even if you wanted to, before he’s pushing himself against your entrance. When he’s inside you, the world ceases to exist. 

He drops his head down towards you, his muscles straining with the effort to go slow and not slam into you. But you want him to—you want him to tear you apart. His lips meet yours in ravenous hunger, your hands find their way to his neck, nails digging in and leaving behind half-moons of broken blood vessels. He moans into your mouth; it’s small at first, growing more insistent. Moving down, he bites along your neck and jaw, teeth digging into what feels like your muscles. Your chest tightens until it feels like your ribs might crack, but it’s not in fear—it’s in want.

“Oh, you _missed me_ , didn’t you?” he growls, bottoming out into you so hard your teeth rattle. You yelp, trying to communicate your agreement but getting lost in your own need. “C’mon, _c’mon—say it.”_

It’s hard to think, your nails dragging down from his neck to his shoulders and digging in as you try to hold onto what’s left of your mind. “I— _ah!—mmm—”_ He cuts you off with another savage thrust and your nails break his skin. “I missed—missed you—” you pant, unable to form a coherent sentence. 

“That’s right, _of course,_ you did.” He sounds _smug_ and his lascivious grin ignites the rage in you again, but it only invigorates your need to meld your being with his. He presses his lips against your collarbone and you melt as he hums, “ _Mmm-mmm_. I missed you, too, beautiful.” 

Your back arches painfully when he pushes himself all the way inside you again, your body struggling to accept what your mind’s so eager for, keening when he pulls back slowly only to slam into you again in a slow rhythm. His weight against your shoulders keeps you close to the ground, but he adjusts your hips, hitting deeper than you thought anyone could reach. 

Your hands drop from his shoulders to his forearms, gripping them hard for dear life as the fire builds inside you, growing into a roaring blaze you can’t control, and your moans build-up to muffled screams. _“More, please more—”_ you whine, creating new gouges where your nails bite into him. “Please— _please—”_

He laughs, a hand holding you up by the crescent of your hip as he kisses you, pushing his tongue into your mouth; you suck on it eagerly, not thinking about the act and only about how you _need_ more, you _need_ him— 

“I like it when you _beg,_ doll,” he growls, increasing his pace and driving into you until it feels like you swallowed lightning. He becomes rough, his hips snapping against yours as both of his hands go to your throat, fingers twitching. “I think I might just, ah… _heh.”_ He barks out a laugh that quickly turns into a grunt, and he squeezes harder. His eyes grow black and hard, and, for the first time that morning, you feel afraid. “I think I might make you _beg_ for everything, hmm?” 

But you still don’t want him to stop. 

Every nerve ending in your body arcs, struggling for breath as your body shakes with the force of his thrusts and your approaching orgasm. He didn’t even need to touch your clit to writhe like he is, and you scream, incomprehensible to everything other than his heavy breathing, the wet sounds you both make. You’re not screaming in pain, but because of another feeling that’s entirely foreign—like you’ll tip into madness if you don’t cum, if he doesn’t make you. 

He’s close enough that he makes up your entire world—his eyes a vortex that paralyzes you. The edges of your vision go as black as his pupils as he squeezes your throat intermittently, only letting quick gasps of air in at a time. You can barely breathe, but it feels like your nerves are alive for the first time, like your body’s become nothing more than one shattering shockwave after another. 

_More—I want more._

With strength you didn’t know you had, you use your thighs’ grip around his waist to twist you both to the side. His hands don’t leave your throat, but you manage to get him on his back. Wasting no time, you grip his length and push your hips down, sinking onto him with a loud whine. If he’s startled, he doesn’t show it, taking it in stride and gripping both sides of your hips to slam you up and down on his cock. 

_“Oh my God—oh my God—”_ you pant over and over, head thrown back as you grind against him and he groans. It feels like he’s deep in your stomach, impaling you, and you don’t want the feeling to stop. 

He’s having a harder time controlling himself—his breathing’s heavier, beads of sweat collecting around the muscles of his chest. You want to see _him_ lose it for once. 

“C’mon, Mr. J, don’t tell me I’m wearing you out?” you ask with a sly smile, sounding more confident and sure of yourself than you actually feel and rotating your hips and making him groan, his eyes rolling back. 

You don’t expect the laughter, or for him to sit up and shove you further down. You yelp when his mouth goes to your breasts, kissing the sides of them and leaving wet trails with his tongue. Your breathing becomes fast, almost a wheeze after the bruising grip he used before, and your back arcs. He bites your nipple, gently at first and then hard and tearing. You’re gasping, moving your hips faster and brushing your clit against him with every forward movement. 

It’s sweet agony, a kind of pain you think you might be addicted to.

You cum again, another shockwave levelling you and making every muscle spasm, legs shaking and your pussy twitching around him. Gripping his neck hard, he never stops, just riding you through the wave while never letting it disappear. 

“These are _sensitive_ little things, aren't they?” He pinches one nipple and pulls, making you whimper as you try to stop shaking, keep your hips from just jerking up and down his length. He sucks the other in his mouth and you gasp again and close your eyes. They _are_ sensitive, and you don’t know what to do with the sensations racing down your stomach. “I _like_ that, sweetheart. Nothing to blush at—they're perfect.” 

He’s still pulling, biting and sucking and driving you _insane._

_“Shut up—just fuck me—”_ you growl, pulling his hair and riding him harder. When he obliges, you're afraid you might pull the hair from the roots—it still doesn’t make you loosen your grip. 

With a low roar, he gets you on your back, gripping your throat again until you can’t breathe. You’re surprised to find you don’t care—it makes the pain and pleasure coalesce until they’re one and the same. Leaving his hair, your fingers find the gash on his chest and dig in, opening the wound and small streams of blood drip down to decorate your breasts. He gets louder, thrusting into you like he wants to split you apart. It’s almost out of body, consuming your whole existence. You almost pass out when he cums inside you, groaning loudly and pulling you down to hold you tightly.

Not unlike Halloween night, you’re left in the aftermath, the air slowly returning to you, wondering what the _actual_ fuck came over you. 

_What… what is wrong with me?_

You’re both panting, chests shaking as he nearly crushes you with his weight. Eventually, he rolls off you and stares up at the ceiling. Any conflict and confusion you felt before this just got a lot messier. 

“What do I do now?” Your eyes widen; you didn't realize you spoke the words out loud. He chuckles, rubbing his eyes before rising up on his elbows to stare at you. His eyes are warm, a dark ochre that fans the heat in your cheeks. He snorts through his nose before kissing you, slowly and with a surprising amount of tenderness. You return it immediately, wanting to keep reality away for a while longer. His hand goes to your breast again and he starts to hum. 

_No way—there’s no way we can do that again._

“What are you—aren’t you tired?” you ask between pants, breaking away from the kiss and trying to clear your head. 

“Do I _look_ tired?” he snaps, gripping your jaw tight as he slithers over you and pushes his tongue in your mouth. Your chest heaves, the wave building in your belly. 

_No, no—this has gone on for long enough. Use your head—_

“I—I should—” you stutter, trying to sit up. He shoves you back down, your head smacking against the floor. You try speaking again when he sucks on a nipple, sending electric pulses down straight to your clit. Working his way down your stomach, you realize what he’s going to do. 

“W-Wait, you—you don’t have to—”

He pulls your hips up, wrapping his hands around your thighs and spreading them open when you try to keep them shut. Raising an eyebrow, a wicked grin grows. 

“Oh, I _want_ to.” Just when you’re about to protest again, the tip of his tongue meets your clit and you squeak, hips rolling away from the overstimulation, but he doesn’t let you move far. Never breaking eye contact, he growls, “Tastes _good_ , babygirl.” 

As if to prove his point, he lowers his mouth again and sticks his tongue into your slit. you shriek and he runs it up to your clit, making an exaggerated slurping noise as he laps at your entrance.

 _“Wait—wait—”_ you pant. 

He doesn’t listen. His tongue circles along your clit, increasing in pressure and speed. Your entire torso comes off the floor, back twisting in an unnatural angle. You don’t want it to, but it’s like a dozen little suns are bursting in your brain. A thousand different zaps of energy and electricity shooting from your clit all the way to your brain in a chemical reaction that you never thought was possible. 

You need to hold onto something— _anything._ You’re writhing, thighs clamping against his shoulders and knees shaking. It’s like you’re about to fall off a steep cliff and you need something to keep yourself from losing it entirely. Every part of you is shaking, vibrating at a frequency that increases the pleasure of what he’s doing. 

His hands grip your thighs harder as he picks up the pace. Just when you think you’re close, your moans building up to another scream, he backs off, slowing his pace and biting at your lips. It still feels good, but you’re aching for another release. Your moans are ones of frustration, your hips moving when you don’t want them to, and he laughs again, taking your clit between his teeth and gently biting. 

Joker keeps bringing you to the edge before tugging you back, always keeping up the feeling but not letting it spill over to completion. You don’t know how long he’s been doing this, but it feels so good you never want it to stop—you want this to be your existence just as much as you want release—that high your body had a taste of on Halloween. He started building you up again, and you’re almost sobbing for him to let you cum. Your hands find their way into his hair, pulling his face closer and holding on for dear life. 

“J-Joker,” you gasp out. “Please— _ah!—please let me—”_

Saying his name was enough. He’s sucking your clit into his mouth, nibbling at it with his teeth as he stimulates the sensitive nerve-endings with his tongue. He doesn’t have to keep it up for long, and, when it hits, you bolt upright and shake with such a violence that for a second your vision goes dark. He keeps going, prolonging what you’re feeling until it’s like you’re about to break apart. Every muscle is tight and straining, your fingers digging into his hair and biting into his scalp. It’s all arcing, pulsing with the beat of your throbbing heart until everything in you drains away. You don’t remember falling back on the floor, but the sensations running up your body take you to a place of bliss you’ve never known in your life. 

You’re out of breath. It feels like you’ve just run a marathon and your body is relaxed to a point you’ve never managed to get to on your own. You’re staring without seeing, little white stars dotting your vision as you try to regain some sort of control over yourself. 

“Open _up,”_ he says. 

Dazed, you try to get your bearings. “Wha—”

He kisses you, his mouth filled with something salty, bittersweet and tangy. You’re too shocked to move, your mouth open from how he’s squeezing your jaw, and you realize it’s his cum you're tasting—his and yours. It coats your tongue, him lapping it around your mouth and making it transfer back and forth between you both. You’re repulsed by the taste, but another part of you that you didn't know existed returns the kiss just as hard. 

“How do we taste, babygirl?” he asks, pulling away as a string of saliva and cum drips over your bottom lip. His eyes watch you with a strange sort of hunger that pulls on your stomach. "Are you like this for _everyone,_ doll? Some guy walks through the door and you just _spread 'em?_ Knew you were freaky, but _boy,"_ he drawls, pushing the sweaty hair stuck to your face behind your ears. 

A hot flush unrelated to the insane sex you just had singes your cheeks and you struggle to protest. "N-No—that's not it at all—" 

_Why am I defending myself to him? This goddamn bastard—_

"Oh. So… it's just for _me_ then?" Your face burns up, becoming a deep flush that flares down all the way to your toes, pooling in the bottom of your stomach. "I'm _flattered."_ He’s smirking—completely smug—and leans down until his lips almost touch yours, and you don’t know if you should be repulsed or turned-on that the taste of you both is still on them—and that you _still_ want to kiss him. “I better be, ah… the _only one_ you do this for. _Hmm?_ Cause I’ll know. Mmm- _hmm_ , I _always_ do."

You’re sure that’s a threat somehow—something you should _definitely_ be concerned about, but he kisses you again, delving your head back in that haze of lust just to tear away, springing up to his feet and walking over you. Left on the floor, your head completely spinning, you look back to your room, where he’s just disappeared, and find him rifling through your dresser drawers and singing some song fit for a circus under his breath. 

_What have I done?_

But… you find less anger than you thought you would. You’re not sure what all this means—he could still kill you, but you’re certain now that he won’t. At least, not right away. 

_Who knew I was a latent crazy? Jesus—fucking hell._

Maybe him staying won’t be such a bad thing… even though you know it’s a _terrible_ idea.

**Author's Note:**

> There's more heading your way in the coming months, peeps! I'll probably keep updating this as the, ah... urge arises. LOL. I hope you enjoyed this and I'd love to hear what you think 💖


End file.
